


the other side of comfort

by carefulren



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Martin's scared, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Tim' still mad, and Jon's trying to make people feel better, set in s3, when normally it's the other way around
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:01:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25797814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carefulren/pseuds/carefulren
Summary: Reading statements is gettng to Martin more than he lets on, so Tim calls in Jon for help.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 8
Kudos: 125





	the other side of comfort

Tim’s walking toward the door of the archives, though, he isn’t quite sure why because he doesn’t plan on recording a statement. He can’t explain why, but whenever he reads the curved, old, faded letters of a statement, a foul taste coats the back of his tongue. One of the “perks” of this job, he assumes. 

Still, he finds, more often than not, that he’s oddly drawn toward the archives, that, during his aimless wandering throughout the day, he always ends up outside the archives door. Most of the time, he doesn’t open the door, but a few times, he’s found himself in the archives, staring blankly at a statement almost as if in a trance.

He stops before the closed door, hand frozen in the air just before the doorknob. He can hear a voice filtering softly through the small gap at the bottom of the door, and he drops his hand to his side and leans forward, listening closely.

Martin, he concludes almost immediately. He can hear Martin reading through the ending of a statement, his voice slightly darker, almost edging the line of an unknown, furious passion, as if he’s the one who wrote the statement originally. But, when the statement ends, he can hear Martin let out a long, shuddering breath, and then Martin’s stuttering through his final thoughts, his voice barely above a whisper and cracking every few words.

Tim’s muscles twitch with a muted need to open the door, to try and bring comfort to Martin, especially since Martin’s been appearing rather zombie-like over the last few days, paler than normal and almost dazed. But, just as quickly as the feeling flicks across his bones, it disappears because how can he bring comfort when he, himself, is unwillingly to accept comfort?

He breathes through a quiet sigh, his shoulders slumping against the low breath. He may not know how to help Martin, not with the Institute bearing down on him, but he knows who will.

***

Jon’s lost within a statement, his mind wrapped around the cursive words on the paper in front of him, when his phone begins buzzing insistently beside his leg, promptly scaring The Admiral off the couch.

He expects Georgie or Martin. He even begrudgingly expects Elias, but what he doesn’t expect is to see Tim’s name flashing across the screen. He makes a split second, conscious decision to keep the tape recorder on as he answers the phone, heart already taking to a too quick thump against his ribs.

“T-Tim,” he stutters in lieu of greeting, voice echoing the surprise etched across his face.

_“Jon.”_

Tim’s voice, as it has been for weeks now, is cold, indifferent, and Jon’s heart falters slightly.

“How, um, how are you?” There’s a long sigh on the other line.

_“I didn’t call for a friendly chat, Jon.”_

While Jon didn’t expect Tim’s call, he’s not surprised by Tim’s tone, by Tim’s attitude toward him. Still, he can’t keep the wave of muted defeat and guilt that washes over him, and he sinks back against the couch, lightly pinching the bridge of his nose with his free hand.

“Why did you call then?” Another, longer sigh follows, and he swears he can hear the cogs turning in Tim’s mind.

_“It’s Martin.”_

Jon bolts forward, body tensing around the two words, and his fingers tighten around his phone. “What’s wrong? Is he okay?” He begins to mentally curse himself for not doing more to keep his staff safe as numerous, grim scenarios cross his mind.

_“He’s fine. Well, actually, he’s not. But he’s not hurt or anything.”_

Jon struggles to decipher Tim’s words, seeing it as some foreign code he simply doesn’t have the time time crack. He can feel panic lacing the edge of his mind, and it mirrors in his tone. “Get on with it, Tim. What’s wrong with Martin?”

_“It’s the statements.”_

Tim pauses, voice quiet on the other line, and Jon presses his phone a little harder to his ear, waiting with bated breath.

_“He’s not you, Jon. He can’t just read one then move onto the next one. I think they are really starting to get to him. He doesn’t seem well.”_

Each word is heavier than the previous, and Jon can feel the weight against his chest, an unseen pressure pushing past his ribs to his lungs and heart. It’s a cold feeling, and he unconsciously shivers.

_“I can’t... You need to talk to him.”_

Though Tim doesn’t say it aloud, Jon knows what’s gone unsaid, and he mentally supplies the unspoken conclusion of Tim’s sentence: ‘Because this is your fault.’

“Of course,” he mutters into the phone, already pressing stop on the tape recorder and getting to his feet, determination breaking the pressure in his chest. “Is there...?”

_“No. Nothing else.”_

Tim goes silent on the other end, but he doesn’t end the call, and Jon takes a moment to pause where he’s been shoving his feet into a pair of boots and just hang onto the notion that Tim’s still there, that maybe he hasn’t given up on him completely.

_“Right.”_ Tim clears his throat. _“Bye, Jon.”_

The call drops, and Jon pockets his phone with a faltering frown, confused, but, for the first time in a long time, slightly hopeful for Tim sounded just a smidge more normal toward him in those last three words.

***

Jon’s made it to the archives door relatively unseen. Though, he’s aware that Elias knows he’s here without having seen the man, and he did share a silent, mutual nod with Tim when they crossed paths a few moments ago.

On the other side of the closed door, he can hear Martin mumbling through his final thoughts on a statement, picking up on the evident, tired frustration laced within his tone. His stomach twists uncomfortably, and, as he’s been on the other side of this door one too many times, he knocks, rapping his knuckles lightly against the wood.

“Oh, um, c-come in.”

Jon pushes the door open, holding one hand out when Martin jumps to his feet, knocking some papers over in the process.

“Jon!”

“Careful,” Jon says quickly, stepping into the room fully.

“Sorry,” Martin’s voice falls slightly, his cheeks going pink. “Why are you here? Er, well, I didn’t mean for it to sound like that. Don’t get me wrong, Jon. I’m happy you’re here... Well, I’m happy to see you, I mean. Just,” Martin pauses, hands tugging at the bottom of his shirt, “what brings you here today? Need more statements?”

Jon takes a moment to drag his eyes from the dark circles casting shadows underneath Martin’s eyes, up to his rumpled hair, looking as if he’s spent far too long raking his fingers through it, and to his eyes, meeting the wide, almost panicked look that makes his heart sink low into his stomach. He’s sure that he’s been on the reverse side of this countless times, and he briefly considers apologizing to Martin for putting him through this so many times.

Without fully working through his thoughts, he spits out the first, coherent word. “Lunch.”

“Sorry, what was that?” Martin steps around the desk, rubs one hand over the back of his neck.

“Lunch,” Jon repeats. He clears his throat. “Would you... Do you want to join me for lunch?”

“Oh. Oh! Um...” Martin’s face flushes a deeper red, and if Jon weren’t completely worried about his health and mental well-being, he would consider smiling.

“Sure! Yeah. Lunch sounds great.”

***

Jon opts for a small diner that’s about a ten minute walk from the Institute. It’s quiet when they slip inside, the lunch rush not quite kicking in yet, and they’re quick to put in their orders when a nice waitress greets them at their table, a corner booth a bit away from wandering ears.

They take to small, mindless chatter at first, with Martin doing the bulk of the talking. He talks about the staff, Elias, a movie he watched the other night, a new convenience store that’s opened close to his flat, but when their food arrives, Jon takes very quick note to Martin picking up and setting down fries without actually eating anything.

“You aren’t eating.”

Martin flushes a soft pink, and he bows his head slightly. “Oh, sorry! I’m not that hungry.” His voice grows soft with the admittance, and Jon frowns, ignoring his burger entirely.

“Are you alright, Martin?”

“What? Of course!” As if to further prove his point, he shoves a fry in his mouth with a forced smile.

Jon considers his options, finally working through the fact that the truth will most likely yield better results. “Tim called,” he says, and Martin raises a brow.

“Have you two made up?”

“Not exactly,” Jon mutters lowly. “He’s worried about you. He thinks the statements are starting to... get to you.”

“Oh, I’m fine!”

Jon can see right through Martin, reading his practiced, light-hearted attitude like an open book. He sighs quietly, finger absently smoothing around the rim of his tea cup.

“Martin, I know how hard this job is. You can... I want you to know that you can talk to me.” He picks his words carefully, not wishing to push Martin under the pressure of compulsion.

And yet, Martin all but deflates across from him, and Jon’s hand twitches with a jolting need to reach out to him.

“I really am trying, Jon. It’s just... Some of the statements... I don’t know how you do it,” Martin admits. “Each one brings this chilly fear that I can’t shake. It follows me home.” He pauses, eyes casting to the table. “I’ve been dreaming about the statements, you know? Nightmares really.” He laughs weakly. “It’s a bit embarrassing, but I’ll wake up screaming. I’m a bit worried my neighbors might file a noise complaint.”

Jon’s hand stops its absent movement, instead falling to the table and curling into a tight fist. His teeth are clenched tightly, and the anger that floods his mind bleeds down to his chest, burning against his heart.

“Why haven’t you said anything?” He can’t help the demanding tone. He only hopes that Martin will know it’s out of pure concern.

“I didn’t want to worry you! You’ve had so much going on. The murder... the kidnapping! The last thing I want to do is whine to you about how some of the statements scare me!”

“You’re...” Jon sucks in a shuddering breath and holds it in his lungs, unsure of what’s the correct thing to say, lost for words as he’s so used to spitting out sentences that were written for him. He knows that he wants to assure Martin that his feelings are completely valid and that his fear is justified. He knows that he wants to run back to the institute and slam Elias into a wall. He knows that he wants-

“-Jon? Are you alright? You’re shaking.”

The breath Jon lets out is long, uneven, but it helps to ease the prickling, hot anger. “You need to tell me when you’re feeling overwhelmed with the job. I know I’m not there, but I’m still the archivist.”

The label is sour on his tongue, but it’s what he knows needs to be said. “Believe me, Martin, when I tell you that this is not a job you can do alone.” He wishes, in that moment, that it is a job he could do alone, that he could relieve his staff of their duties without any consequences, but he can’t. So, he’s stuck with the next best thing.

“So, you have to let me help you.” Martin’s gone still across from him, mouth agape slightly, and Jon’s just considering that he somehow broke Martin when Martin finally clears his throat.

"Okay.”

Jon’s not sure if it’s a trick of the poor lighting in the diner, but Martin’s pale face looks a bit better, taking to a soft pink color, and unconsciously, Jon reaches out, cupping his rough palm atop Martin’s hand.

“Call me, Martin. Even if it’s in the middle of the night, if you need me, call me. I want to help.”

Jon’s not sure how, but he’s verbalizing what Martin’s been saying to him through looks alone since he first became the archivist. It’s an odd feeling being on the other side, being the one who’s deeply concerned for another. He pulls his hand back when Martin gives it one, tight squeeze.

“I will,” Martin whispers, and Jon smiles, soft, but unabashedly genuine, and the wide, open smile Martin returns momentarily takes Jon away from every single worry.

For just a moment, it’s just Jon and Martin sitting in a small diner, and Jon clings to that.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is always appreciated :) 
> 
> (Come say hi or leave a prompt on tumblr! @toosicktoocare)
> 
> Title


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